Dearest Series Boxed Set (54 page)

W
hat’s
the worst thing about wanting a sexy NFL football player? Everyone else wants him, too.

A
fter catching
my boyfriend getting deep-throated by a skanky cage girl, I’ve learned my lesson – never date a professional athlete. Never. Besides, I have more important things to worry about, like not blowing my shot to make it as a broadcast reporter. I won’t let anything get in my way, not even the new “it boy” of the NFL and my hot-as-hell
neighbor.

W
hat's
the worst thing about getting death glares from his new neighbor? It doesn't make him want her any less.

I
’ve worked
my ass off to make it to the pros. The last thing I need is the complication of a relationship, especially since my last one was a total train wreck. But I can’t stop thinking about the feisty girl next door with the smart mouth. And I’d love nothing more than to show her what to do with that mouth. 

F
riends with benefits
might be the best idea he’s ever had. Or the worst.

K
ISSING MADELINE
, the third book in THE DEAREST SERIES, can be read a standalone novel. This new adult romance is recommended for readers 18+ due to mature content.

S
ome people think
I have it made. I say looks can be deceiving.

The white lights blare down on me, and I smile. That’s my answer for everything. I’ve broken bones, sprained ligaments, twisted joints, and I always smile. It’s how I get through the pain until the numbness settles in and I can breathe again.

The cameras crowd closer to the conference table, and the answers roll off my tongue. “I’m the new guy. I’m just looking to be a part of this team, to do my part and fill in the gap.” I glance at Coach Reynolds and Shawn Brentwood, the veteran quarterback. “That is, if there is a gap.”

Everyone chuckles, but underneath Brentwood’s grin, I know what he’s thinking. Because I’d be thinking the same thing. That I’m the asshole here to take his job. He’s right. Because what the hell kind of QB would I be if I were content to sit my ass on the bench all day? I’m here to win. It’s what I’m good at.

The coach fields a few questions, and my eyes travel to the back of the room where I spot wives and girlfriends of fellow players. Hell, even my father took time off from corporate domination to come, and he and I aren’t even talking. He’s standing in the back next to my mother, who looks like she might pass out from the euphoria of clutching my NFL jersey.

I should be just as elated. After thousands of hours of practice and games, I have arrived. Achieved my dream. But as I search the room, that numbness swells.

She didn’t come.

My jaw tightens. I shouldn’t be surprised. But I am. Because I’m the dumb asshole who thought that after all this time she’d be different. That she’d actually mean those promises. That she’d change.

She’s probably off buying some Armani luggage or a new Gucci watch or some shit that’s only going to crowd her overflowing walk-in closet.

I never ask her for anything, but I asked her to do one thing for me. One. To be here today, the biggest day of my career.

My temple throbs, and I rub it with my palm.

Deep down, I know I deserve this. What do they say? Payback is a bitch. Yeah, they got that right.

“Daren! As the Heisman winner, do you feel extra pressure to perform?”

Of course.

I shake my head. “Titles mean nothing. Only wins. While I’m honored to have received the Heisman, that award represents my college career. My NFL career starts now. As any athlete will tell you, the only thing you can control is the here and now. So I don’t let titles or previous wins or awards dictate how I think about the game. I play to win. That’s it.”

He nods, ignoring the fact that I didn’t answer his question. They always do because they only see my stats, my completed throws, my touchdowns.

It’s easy to see why people think I have it made. When I look in the mirror, sometimes I think the same thing. That the victories are too easy, that there has to be the other side of the coin, the dark side, the part no one sees. Because no one can walk between the raindrops like I can. I’m a fucking master.

But the tightrope comes with a price. Pride. Hubris. Vanity. Call it what you will. It’s the head game I play to make myself think I’m better. So when the ball snaps, when I can feel the leather stitching between my fingers and my heart pounding in my ears, the training takes over and I actually feel the swell of invincibility. Sure, I put in the time. I sweat. I train. I fight. But at the end of the day, the winners think they can do it, and the losers know they can’t.

Does that sound like total bullshit? Yeah, it is. But if I chant that crap long enough, I believe it. And when I believe it, I win.

So what happens when I don’t believe it? When I know I’m just full of shit?

I fuck up. Big.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and anger surges through me. When the press move on to interview the new wide receiver, I pull out my cell.

Her message is typical.
I got held up. I’m coming.

I can’t type my response fast enough.
Don’t bother.

Thanks for missing the NFL Draft, bitch.

A
fter a year
-long internship with NBC, I finally did it. I got a coveted position as an on-air reporter. It’s meant long hours at the studio, missing meals, and having no social life, but I nailed it two weeks after I graduated from college.

I wish I could say NBC offered me the job, but my boss told me right off the bat he didn’t have any positions for newbs. So I got the next best thing—a gig with New England News Network, which boasts a reputation for hard-hitting stories. It also means that unlike most of my peers who are trekking off to report the news in bumble, I get to stay in my hometown.

And there’s only one person I want to celebrate with tonight.

Jacob is going to die when I tell him I nailed it.

Walking in to his apartment, I set my bag down in the entryway and kick off my heels. Jacob is probably napping. He always takes a snooze after practice. He’s a mixed martial artist and a gym rat. I’ve never dated a professional athlete before. Usually, I’ve gone for the quiet econ or history major, but I couldn’t resist Jacob’s allure. I was shooting footage for a friend who had to cover a local match last summer when we first met. After Jacob pummeled his opponent, he strutted up to me and asked me out.

Two weeks ago, he asked me to move in, but he’s training for a big fight, so we’re waiting until after his trip to Vegas next week to make it official.

Glancing at my watch, I know I’m a few hours early, but I can’t wait to tell him.

On the bar, next to a dozen roses, a bottle of wine chills in a cooler. Did he find out my secret? My tummy jumps with excitement.

I tiptoe down the hall, ready to strip out of my clothes to give him a proper wakeup call, when I hear the laughter. A woman’s laughter.

I jerk to a stop, my heart suddenly pounding.

“You like that, huh?” His voice cuts through the silence and sends goosebumps up my arms.
“Suck it harder. That’s right. Show me how much you love my cock in your mouth.”

Oh my God.

Trembling, I don’t want to go any closer. I don’t want to see for myself, but my legs move of their own accord until I don’t have a choice but to witness this with my own eyes.

I see him through the crack in the door, sitting on the edge of the bed with his fingers threaded through her dark hair. Their faces are in shadow, but his head motions yes as she bobs up and down in his lap.

She pauses to look up at him. “Can we do it like we did yesterday?”

He moans. “Yeah, baby, just like yesterday.”

The skank crawls up the bed, and he follows, straddling her chest. She reaches up and grabs the metal headboard as Jacob directs himself into her mouth.

Nausea twists in my stomach.

Yesterday, my boyfriend and this girl had sex in his bed. Just before I had sex with him in his bed.

I cover my mouth, fighting hard not to vomit because, yesterday, we had unprotected sex. When I thought he was monogamous and the man I would marry, I let him put his dirty dick in me.

All at once, my life doesn’t make sense. Tonight should be about my future and planning a life with someone I thought loved me. I’m such a fool. Ignoring the rumors he was promiscuous, I let my guard down with him, let myself believe his lies about being with lots of girls simply because he hadn’t found the right one. And he let me believe I was it. His forever.

As I watch this woman deep-throat Jacob, the hurt and pain dissipate, and all I feel is rage. Blinding, white-hot, I-might-kill-someone rage. My hands move like I’m on autopilot, my training kicking in. I’m barely aware of my phone shaking in front of me as my finger slides across the screen to activate the camera.

I push the red button. A few seconds is all I get, but it’s exactly what I need to remind myself of my stupidity. Because I know he’ll lie. He’ll twist this around until I can’t see straight, and he’ll somehow get me to think this is my fault.

No, this is on him, and I want to remember every ounce of humiliation so I never repeat this mistake again.

The cocksucker pauses to ask where they’ll hook up once I move in, and he tells her they’ll do it in the locker room at the gym. Classy.

I turned down date after date so this jerkoff could cheat on me.

Tucking my phone back into my jacket, I stomp past them and dump the shit out of his gym bag before I yank open drawers and toss my clothes in.

“Shit. Shit. It’s Maddie,” he mumbles. “Baby, what are you doing?”

“Fuck you, asshole.” I storm into the bathroom and grab my makeup. When I emerge, Jacob is pushing the girl away, and I see her face for the first time.

“Oh my God. This just gets better.” Staring at Kimmy the cage girl, I can’t believe I got this whole thing so wrong.

“Baby, this isn’t what it looks like,” he stammers.

My knuckles turn white as I grip my bag. “Really? So your dick magically landed in her mouth? What an interesting phenomenon.”

I take the keychain he gave me with a miniature boxing glove and chuck it at his head.

“Kimmy, now you don’t have to blow him at the gym. He’s all yours.”

* * *

W
hen the door opens
, Sheri laughs. “Maddie, you have a key. You don’t need to knock.”

I shrug, and my messenger bag slides down my arm, dragging my blouse with it. Tugging up my shirt so I’m not flashing her, I blow my bangs out of my face. “It felt like the right thing to do. I’m your guest. Your very grateful guest.”

“No, you’re my roommate. None of this guest shit.”

Smiling weakly, I acquiesce, but only so she’ll stop arguing because we both know she’s not charging me anything close to half the rent. She lives in a luxury brownstone in Boston’s Back Bay, something I could never afford in my wildest dreams. But my friend caught wind that I needed a place to stay since I had already given my notice for my old apartment, and she all but demanded I move in.

I’ve been here before, but I’m still a little awed by her condo. Dark, polished hardwood floors draw my eyes to an enormous brick fireplace, which is flanked by sleek modern furniture. It’s sophisticated and elegant, and about a million times better than my futon fold-out bed and cinderblock book shelves.

There’s only one thing missing from the view.

“You moved my boxes.” Because, holy crap, that was a lot to move.

“I had a little help. My neighbor stopped by, and he lent a hand. Speaking of that hot man—”

“You went through too much trouble. I could have done it.” When I brought over my moving boxes last weekend, I was afraid I’d get a ticket for double-parking the small van I’d rented out front, so I just left everything in the corner of her living room.

She waves me off. “It gave me an excuse to skip the gym. Besides, I had fun analyzing how you labeled your stuff.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bathroom makeup and moisturizers. Winter bedding and thermal layers. News-writing textbooks and notes. Everything color-coded. Did you use a label maker?” She doesn’t wait for my response. “By the way, what was in the ‘bedroom nightstand’ box that started vibrating when I accidentally dropped it?” My mouth drops open, and her chuckle grows into full-blown laughter. “Hmm, let me guess. Jacob’s replacement.”

Clearing my throat, I shake my head, and with it, my embarrassment. “Jacob wishes he was as hung as the Power-Boy 3000 or that he gave me nearly as many orgasms.”

Her eyebrow raises. “The Power-Boy 3000? Where can I find one?”

“I bought it at my friend’s sex toy party.”

“We are
so
going to have one of those! Maybe when we wrap up this film.” Sheri works for her dad, who’s this big movie producer, so she travels a ton. It’s one of the reasons she wants a roommate. To keep an eye on her place when she’s gone. It would be so much easier for her to move to New York or LA, but she’s a Boston girl through and through and gets a little crazy at the mere mention of relocating.

After I change out of my work clothes and into a pair of jeans and a fitted v-neck t-shirt, Sheri suggests we check out a new bar that opened up down the street and grab a few drinks.

Twenty minutes later, we settle into a corner table in the dimly lit bar, and by the time we get our second round, the effects of the alcohol have me on the verge of crying into my beer. I never drink for a reason. I get too emotional. And right now, my heart feels heavy. “Sheri-berry, I really appreciate you taking me in.”

Her eyebrows raise. “You’re the first friend I ever made at BU. Of course I’d take you in.”

Sheri and I were roommates freshman year in the dorms at Boston University. We didn’t get along at first. I think she found me too uptight, and I found her to be too rich. I know that sounds terrible, but she’s a Park Avenue transplant, and growing up, I was a second-hand clothes kind of girl—not because I thought that was cool or because I watched too many old John Hughes films, but because we couldn’t afford more. But I eventually began to look beyond Sheri’s designer labels and French manicures to see a girl with a heart too big for her pixie-sized body.

Together, Sheri and I make for odd-looking friends. If she’s the size of a walnut, then I’m an oak tree. She’s petite and tan with cropped blonde hair and big blue eyes. I’m a little over five-eight with long black hair, pale skin and blue eyes. She looks like she waltzed off a movie set, and I look like a character from
Wicked
. But I love her, even if her whole body could fit into one leg of my jeans.

“Mads, I would totally sucker-punch Jacob’s gonads for you if I could. Is that douchebag still calling you?”

“Just once or twice a week now. I let them go to voicemail.”

She watches me, her frown growing. “How are you doing with everything?”

I take a quick sip of my beer to buy me a moment. “I’ll be honest. It’s been a rough few weeks.” Especially once I realized I had lost my apartment. Since I’d been planning to move in with Jacob, my old roommate had already found another living situation, and the landlord had found a new tenant, so I was doubly screwed. My fingers play with the corner of the wrapper on my beer. “Make that a rough month and four days.”

As much as I wish I could forget the date of our breakup, it coincided with getting my new job, making it that much tougher to block out.

But I have to look on the bright side. At least my tests came back negative. Because the first thing I did after our breakup was bolt to the clinic to make sure the asshole didn't give me something nasty.

Sheri scoots her chair closer and reaches over for a side hug. I drop my head onto her shoulder and sigh. I’m an only child, but if I had a sister, this is how I imagine she’d be. It’s times like this that I ache with more than the pain of losing Jacob. I miss my dad so much right now, my chest feels hollow.

“I realize you’re mending a broken heart, but I want you to know how psyched I am to have you as a roommate. I’m still pissed at you for ditching me sophomore year.”

I gasp. “I did not ditch you! As I recall, you wanted to live in West Campus, and I needed to be next to the Com School on East Campus for six a.m. call times.”

“Oh, yeah.” She chuckles and glances down, a serious expression crossing her face again. “I’m so sorry that dick hurt you, Mads. Are you okay? Really?”

“Mmm.” My eyes well with tears. “Aside from the fact that Jacob ruined my five-year plan?” I let myself think about the video on my phone, and the anger surfaces. This is what I have to hold on to because hatred is a more valuable emotion than grief.

Sheri’s mouth twists. But before she can say anything, I go on a rant. “I get that he was tempted to sleep with other women. They threw themselves at him wherever we went. And maybe I was a fool to think I had somehow tamed him. But what’s really been bothering me is how he…” I close my eyes and the scene flashes before me in graphic detail. Lowering my voice, I say, “How he talked to her.”

Show me how much you love my cock in your mouth.

I can’t say the words, but they ricochet in my head like a gunshot going off in a canyon.

Tilting my head so my hair falls forward to hide my face, I clear my throat. “He was never that way with me.”

“What do you mean he was never that way with you?”

How do I say this? God, this is humiliating. “He, uh, he was… careful with me. More… proper.”

“So he didn’t talk dirty.”

“It’s more than that. He treated me like he was afraid he’d offend me somehow. Here was this intimidating fighter, but he was surprisingly gentle and maybe… too respectful? Uh, that sounds terrible. Am I crazy that I wanted him to be rougher?”

She snorts. “Fuck, no. Rough is good. Rough rocks my world.”

“I guess I wonder if I was too anal for him.”

“Anal works for me too.”

I smack her in the shoulder. “You know what I mean. Like you said, I can be particular, and I can’t tell you how much I loathe sleeping on the wet spot. He hated how I’d bolt from bed the moment we were done, but I can’t have
that
dripping down my leg at two in the morning.”

Sheri giggles. “It’s totally his loss for not sexing you up properly. And so what if you like to clean up? To each her own.” She takes a sip of her beer and gives me a once-over. “Look, I know you had boyfriends before Jacob, but you definitely have this good-girl vibe. I wonder if he couldn’t get past that. You know, that whole Madonna-whore complex.”

“So I was the virgin and that woman in his bed was the whore?” Sheri nods reluctantly. “I guess that would explain why he had her deep-throating him like he was trying to reach her bellybutton through her esophagus.”

“Jacob might have been sleeping around, but he wanted to marry you, so maybe some part of him had to keep you pure.”

At this I laugh half-heartedly. “Pure. Right.” Had I not purchased a half-dozen see-through nighties for this man? What part of him thought I wanted to be pure? Did he need me to spell it out for him? I mean, he didn’t have to go all Christian Grey on me, but it’s like he never lost control when we were together. And isn’t that what every girl wants? To make her guy so crazy in lust he can’t control himself?

Damn, Jacob. Wasn’t the sex good enough? I thought he seemed satisfied. And I might not have always had an orgasm, but what girl who works sixty-five hours a week achieves the mighty O every time?

I’m so tempted to think this was my fault. That I drove him to be unfaithful. Because I worked too much or seemed preoccupied with my job. But he’s the one who strayed, and I’m not some broken-down girl who lives for her man’s approval.

Screw that.
I tip my drink back to my lips. No, I dodged a bullet.

I recently read that over seventy percent of married men would have an affair if they knew their spouse would never find out. No, Jacob isn’t an anomaly, and I am not the problem. Men are.

After my internal pep talk, I’m feeling a little more resolved. I’m going to be okay as long as I keep reminding myself that men are the enemy. Especially good-looking men.

Sheri elbows me. “Don’t look now, but my favorite neighbor just strolled in.” Her eyes widen as she stares at someone behind me.

I twist in my seat, and my eyes bug out as I take in the small entourage at the other end of the restaurant. “
That’s
your neighbor? Daren Sloan?”

“I see you’re already familiar with this nearly mythical creature.”

I turn back to her as I put two fingers against my jugular. “Hmm. Let’s see.” I wait a few seconds for dramatic effect. “I have a pulse. Because that’s all one requires to take notice of your ‘favorite neighbor.’”

Inwardly, I growl. Even from here, his expression grates on me. Daren Sloan has this irritatingly smug look on his face, like he knows women everywhere are envisioning him ripping off their underwear with his teeth.

Of course Sheri and Daren are neighbors. Because her dad is a movie mogul, she knows everybody. When she says she loves Brad and Angelina, she actually means she loves them because they all vacationed together last Christmas.

“Let’s call Daren over.” Sheri starts to wave, but I yank her arm down before anyone sees her.

“Let’s not.”

“Why?” She gives me a look that tells me I might be insane.

“Because no.”

“Maddie, I need more than that. You’re going to love Daren. God, he’s such a great guy. Thank Jesus and the little lamb he finally broke up with that slore Veronica.” She clinks her beer against the bottle in my hand.
Slore?
“You should see him after a workout. All hot and sweaty and hard.” After a quick swig, Sheri gasps so loudly I’m half afraid she’s choking on her beverage, but before I can pat her on the back, she drops the bomb. “You should totally go out with him!”

Huh?

She wiggles in her seat, a giddy expression on her face like I just told her Charlie Hunnam wants to hump her. “He went through a manwhore-rebound phase this summer, but I think he’s getting over it. I haven’t heard his bed frame banging against the wall lately.”

“Wait. What?”

A devilish grin spreads on her face. “His bedroom shares a wall with your bedroom. I
might
have listened in. And if I’m right, he’s a beast in the sack. We’re talking Godzilla. And holy crap, you guys would make the cutest couple!”

A little snort escapes me. I’m still laughing when I realize she’s serious. She actually wants me to go out with Daren.

“Um, no, Sher-bear. That will never happen. Ne-ver. Never ever.”

“Never say never.” She tugs on my arm. “Don’t be a fool. He’s Boston’s most eligible bachelor. The Heisman winner. The number one draft pick. A god among men.” Sheri turns my face toward his table. “Look at that chin dimple. I mean, that alone gets girls to drop their panties. Never mind those eyes. I’m telling you, Maddie, if I were into jocks at all, I would scale Mount Everest over there so fast, I’d break the sound barrier.”

“Mount Everest?” My eyebrow tilts up.

“Yeah. Earth’s highest mountain. The Big Kahuna. The Big Enchilada. The—”

“I get the idea.” I’m trying to be patient because I know Sheri just wants to be helpful. “I’m not into athletes. Not anymore. There’s too much temptation for them, and I’m not good at being a doormat. It would never work. I’m going back to dating econ majors. Those guys might not be able to throw me over their shoulder or bench-press my body weight, but at least they’re not going to rear-naked-chokehold my heart.” I rack my brain to think of something to get her off my case. “Hey, Brad, the tech guy at work, asked me out.”

She looks at me suspiciously. “And did you say yes?”

“I don’t date coworkers, but we still had a nice chat. He’s a decent-looking guy. And I didn’t think about Jacob once.”

“I’m sure the poor schmuck will find that comforting when he’s jerking it with his left hand instead of boning the hot reporter.”

“Ew.” I do not want to think about Brad and his left hand.

My eyes trail back over to the table where Daren sits with a couple of friends. Thoughts of my coworker fade as I take in this elite athlete. To call him beautiful is an understatement. He’s a five-alarm fire of a man, and that’s with his clothes on.

I roll my eyes at myself.

That’s the old Maddie talking. The new Maddie realizes Daren is just a pretty boy who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Been there, done that. Having grown up in the area, I’m probably better acquainted with Daren Sloan’s reputation than I care to be.